


berühren

by natjennie



Series: liebessprachen [1]
Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Autistic Richard Hendricks, Falling In Love, Gay Panic, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Richard Hendricks is Bad at Feelings, Stream of Consciousness, Touch-Starved, Touching, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29886759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natjennie/pseuds/natjennie
Summary: Hope is the thing with feathers, Donald. You know better than this.He does. He does know better than this. But he wants.
Relationships: Jared Dunn/Richard Hendricks
Series: liebessprachen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204739
Comments: 14
Kudos: 8





	berühren

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of thoughts about the way richard and jared experience touch. this is just sort of word vomit, but it makes sense and feels right to me. so, anyway, have fun good luck bright eyes full hearts can't lose.

Richard flinches. He knows he does. He fidgets and twitches and jerks and doesn’t quite have the control over his limbs he should at this point in his adult life. But it’s fine. It’s a nonissue. Most other people in tech are the same specific brand of fucked up he is so he doesn’t have to hug or shake hands or. Touch elbows. Or whatever it is people do. Touch just, isn’t a thing he has to worry about. 

Until Jared.

It’s his fault, okay, he knows it is. He called Jared that first night, he asks Jared for help, he needs Jared’s advice, he keeps crawling back to Jared’s door on his hands and knees and he really can’t keep Jared’s name out of his mouth for a fucking second, can he?

_Jared, come on. Jared, please. Jared, I’m sorry. Jared, you were right. Jared, I fucked up. Jared, please, come back. Jared, please, please Jared, I’m sorry, I know Jared, just, please, **I miss you, Jared.**_

But that’s not the point. 

Jared is touchy. And Richard hates it. At least, he did hate it. He definitely hated it, he knows he did. Stupid weird lanky Jared. Jared, who was always right behind him when he didn’t want him to be and somewhere else when he needed him. Jared and the back of his dumb ginormous hand on his forehead asking him if he’s feeling okay. Jared’s crazed running tackle of a hug on zero hours of sleep at TechCrunch. Jared fucking putting his bag on his shoulder for him and reaching out to fix his collar without Richard asking him to.

Anyway, it wasn’t super clear when “I don’t hug” turned into yes please rub my back after I puke and put a hand on my shoulder so I don’t run into the wall and trail your fingertips across the small of my back while we walk and. Well. You can see his dilemma. 

Touch just wasn’t his thing. And it’s still not, it isn’t. People being within arm’s reach brings bile to the back of his throat and makes him want to curl in on himself and disappear. Except, not with Jared. That gangly owl-eyed weirdo penetrated his defenses and he can’t figure out _why._

Except for the fact that he definitely can figure out exactly why but if he thinks about that too hard his heart does fucking kick-flips and he thinks he’s gonna pass out and he doesn’t have time for that right now okay he’s got bugs to fix or whatever.

And he’s definitely doing that. Fixing the bugs or whatever. He’s definitely coding.

He’s looking at his screen and not at Jared’s fucking stupid neck that’s a million miles long and looks like fresh snow just begging to be marked. He’s reading reports and 100% not flicking his eyes towards Jared’s elegant fingers tapping away at his keyboard, solving yet another problem Richard created with his bug-eyes and his puking and his stumbling and Jared’s holding his life, his whole world, in those huge fucking hands like a baby bird and looking at it reverently with a kindness and care he doesn’t deserve, couldn’t ever deserve and. 

He’s not thinking about it. That’s exactly the thing that he isn’t thinking about.

Except that he is thinking about it. Like a lot. Like all the fucking time. Like, now, when he’s supposed to be emailing. Someone. And yesterday when he ate shit on the sidewalk because he was too busy thinking about what Jared’s stupid fucking vest would feel like against his cheek. And most nights recently. When he. When. He’s not thinking about it.

He’s not thinking about it because that would make him- and he’s not- he’s n- it’s not that he has a problem with people who- he’s just- maybe- no, he’s not. He’s not. Unless. Maybe uhh. No. It just wouldn’t make any sense right? He’s. He’s been with women. Plural. I mean, barely, but plural. Right? And it would be kind of late to have a weird panic about being. But that’s not. That’s not what this is about, okay? It’s just not. He’s not.

I mean, unless. Unless he is. Which he’s not. But if he was. Maybe. Hypothetically, that is. It wouldn’t be. I mean? It wouldn’t be the end of the world, right? He’s handled the end of the world. Like on and off every other week for the past. Every year of his life. And he’s still here. Right? So it wouldn’t be worse than any of the other shit Palo Alto has thrown at him. But he’s not- so it doesn’t-

“Richard?” A crystalline, honey-filled voice interrupts his millionth fucking spiral of the day.

“Fuck! Jesus, Jared. Shit, what? Uh, what’s up?” He clears his throat and does a long blink, his eyes stinging from what must have been a pretty intense stare he was just doing. 

Cringing, he cranes his neck up a bit and stretches back into the posture of a normal human being only to be met with crisp, kind, worshipful eyes and a barely-there smile tugging at the downturned corners of Jared’s mouth. One of his patented "I’m worried about you and I want the best for you, please take care of yourself" looks. 

Richard knows it well.

“I noticed you had been in the zone for a while, so I thought you might like some tea?” 

Jared’s eyebrows knit together and his eyes are the fucking Andromeda galaxy and he swallows and Richard tracks the movement of his Adam’s apple and his fingertips are shooting sparks through Richard’s whole body as he’s gently lowering the warm teacup into his unconsciously reaching hands and Richard wants to puke and implode and his heartbeat is so fucking loud in his ears and it feels like his skin is on fire and-

_Fuck._

Richard is undeniably categorically definitely thinking about it.

* * *

_Don’t get ahead of yourself, Donald._

If he’s being entirely candid, the stream of what could only be genius bustling through Richard’s elysian brain and scrambling scattershot out of his glorious mouth is not exactly at the forefront of Jared’s mind at the moment.

_“We shattered that limit at TechCrunch Disrupt.”_

_“Yeah, baby!”_

_“ **Hhhaa!** ”_

His hands curl into fists unconsciously at his sides, a nervous habit. Tsk tsk, Donald, what would Aunt Margaret say about not even being able to stand without a queer affectation? But he can’t help it right now, he has to; he doesn’t know what his profane and needful hands might reach for without the distraction.

Richard is counting on him and he should be more present, especially for this, for Richard’s exaltation, his revelation, but he can’t just throw around words like that, not with his awe-inspiring intellect and charming good looks, and not expect it to have an effect on people, gosh darn it.

Jared can feel his hands coming up towards his chest, in defense of what he will not let himself name.

_Hope is the thing with feathers, Donald. You know better than this._

He does. He does know better than this. But he wants.

Goodness gracious he wants. He wants so very much, every errant curl, every drop of sweat, every stress-bitten nail, every threadbare hoodie. He wants to drag his fingertips over Richard’s very soul and leave his mark there, so he might finally be remembered. Seen. Felt. Corporeal.

His fists clench tighter despite himself as he watches Richard slam Peter Gregory’s notebook against the table and he wants.

“I mean, I was right all along, I was right!”

Richard’s breath comes a little faster with his excitement and Jared wants to outstretch his hand, wants to feel Richard's frenetic puffs of air on the side of his neck, wants to trace Richard’s jugular with his tongue, wants to reach inside of Richard’s chest and soothe the sore, ever-bursting heart he finds there with his bare hands.

“Can I just- Can I try something?” The feverish way Richard is fidgeting and gesturing, the giddy tone of his voice, the sincerity in his face, it’s all too much.

Even his carefully manicured nails digging raw cardinal-colored crescents into his palms can’t stop the earnest, overeager “Yeah,” that rushes out of him, as instinctive as breathing, in response.

_This, here, everything you’ve wanted. Do you even deserve it? You absolute milksop, of course you don’t. You’ve been greedy, Donald, oh, so greedy. Look at all you’ve taken advantage of. You could never deserve him. You haven’t earned it._

_Unless. Unless you have. Unless every ounce of yourself that you’ve given away, everything you’ve ever held back for fear of losing has finally been collected. The scrap pieces of clay torn away and strewn from your desire molded into this, now, here, this this this-_

“Woo!” Richard’s face twists up in a shy, crooked smile, giggles spilling out of the corners of his lips like choppy seafoam and Jared thinks he’s being punished.

_Oh._

“Oh,” he breathes. It comes out automatically, there’s nothing he can do to stop the immature, foolish disappointment that sinks to the bottom of his stomach, spoiled, rotten milk where he had dreamed there might be fresh sherbet.

He brought this on himself, of course he did. There’s no reason to blame anyone but himself. He certainly couldn’t blame Richard. Look at him, all wreathed in angelic curls, eyes full of hope and vigor, care and goodness and light and excitement beaming out of every atom of his being.

Who is he to deny Richard this happiness? He wouldn’t even know how to begin to deny Richard anything at all.

So he swallows it. He swallows the hard lump of want and hurt from a betrayal no one could even tell took place. And he smiles. For Richard.

“Okay. Woo!” He screams. And if his cheers are a little more anguished than they are exuberant, a little more harrowed than they are holy, if they bring bile to his throat and tears to the corners of his eyes and feel a little more like Armageddon than Rapture, at least they drown out the shattering of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched all the way up to like 4 minutes into the series finale, but I'm too scared bad things are going to happen and too sad for it to end, so I'm hiding in fanfic. how are you guys doing?
> 
> edit: thank you guys so much for all the comments I'm going insane. my tumblr is @natjennie if yall want to come bully me into writing more. I love you ok bye


End file.
